The Writing On The Walls
by SapphireBlueLuvsU
Summary: 21 year old John is living by himself for a while... What could go wrong?


The first thing I hear when I wake up is the sound of a door creaking that definitely had been closed.

The first thing I see when I wake up is darkness, but I definitely left a lamp on.

The first thing I smell when I wake up is the crisp, night air coming through an open window that definitely hadn't been open.

And, the first thing I feel when I wake up is my own palms, sweaty from suspicious anticipation, that definitely hadn't been there before.

My throat is dry, my thoughts weary as I try to determine whether an intruder was in my flat or not.

Living alone is a new experience for me, being that I've shared an apartment for the past six or seven years. But our quarters had taken some damage and we were forced to relocate for a short while. So, Sherlock had begrudgingly gone to stay with his family and I'd rented a smaller flat, which my friend had graciously paid for because he felt guilty that he hadn't had room for me to stay with him.

That doesn't stop us from spending our days together, though I'm always regretful to leave him knowing he won't be there to wake me up at some ungodly hour just to inform me that the hall needed a light bulb change. And the second I convince myself no one could possibly be in here at all, I check my mobile so I can at least have a sense of time.

It's 1:30.

Deciding that my need for water is way more important than anything else at the moment, I use the flashlight from my cell to find my way to the kitchen. It's only after I quench my thirst that I realize I could've turned the light on beforehand. But, as I turn to do so, a ' _bing'_ from my phone distracts me.

A text.

I turn my attention to the luminescent screen as I, simultaneously, flick the light switch.

On the glowing device ( that isn't blinding me because the lights are now on), is a picture of me.

Sleeping.

It takes me a minute to comprehend that I've just received a text from an unfamiliar number of a picture that I obviously couldn't have taken.

My body tenses, but I try not to let this faze me. Gradually, my ferociously palpitating heart slows to a healthy pace and I take a deep breath to calm my surging mind.

 _Just put the phone down and take a look around,_ I tell myself silently.

This seems to be a reasonable suggestion.

Until, it isn't.

Taped to the walls, the appliances, the counters are different variations of the same photo.

The one of me.

I run frantically through the flat turning all the lights on and finding the same thing in each room.

The last straw is when I look into the bathroom mirror to find that someone has used a red window marker and has drawn a vicious, smiling face in place of mine.

My breaths are coming in short bursts now as the cold fear that has crept into my head, numbs me to the point of manic delirium.

I'm distantly aware of my body rifling through drawers and cabinets and slamming them after finding more and more pictures, searching for something without actually knowing what I'm looking for.

Meanwhile, my thoughts have taken their own course:

What if someone has come to kill me?

What if this is only the beginning of it?

What if they've only just started this process of driving me out of my head to make it easier to sneak up on me and murder me without a single soul to care?

' _What about Sherlock?'_ a small, delicate voice protests meekly.

Sherlock.

It's always been me and him.

Us boys, together.

He and I against the rest of the world.

Sherlock!

The sound of shattering glass snaps me out of my stupor, causing me to glance down at what I had dropped.

A frame.

Picking it up, I stare at the portrait within its wooden walls not seeing it at all.

I let it fall to the ground, the shattered glass slicing through the glossy paper, tearing it clean in half and the loud noise it makes, resonates forcefully through my ears.

Blind panic seizes me and, grabbing my abandoned mobile, I view my sleeping self once more, causing me to instinctively press the home button so I can call my best friend.

My home screen wipes all thoughts from my mind, melting my heart instead as it usually does every time I see it.

There, on the fragile glass, is us.

Sherlock and I.

We're squished together in a restaurant booth.

I'm smiling cheerfully, one of my eyes shut from his dark hair in my face and he's laughing, his brilliant grin and the healthy flush in his cheeks make the photo seem ever so real.

I remember when we took this picture.

It was after I had found myself laughing on his home screen.

And after he'd found himself on mine.

We went out for dinner that night and took this selfie together so we could _both_ have it as a memory.

I shake my head, banishing the nostalgic moment away, and resort back to my original task.

But, before I can, my cell rings, the caller ID telling me that my best friend has called me first.

I immediately pick up, relief coursing through my veins, but before I can say anything, a voice comes shooting from the other line and out through the speakers.

"I can see you."

The phrase comes out raspy and is nothing similar to the smooth, calculating voice of my flatmate.

"You should really be more careful about who you give your keys to… It was only too easy to get a hold of them."

I don't say a word, too afraid that if I say the wrong thing I would be assassinated on the spot.

"Okay… Now, listen to me. I'm not going to threaten you because I know you'll do exactly as I say. You have flat 236A which is on the bottom floor. Go to the abandoned 236C."

I open my mouth to contradict… Whoever is speaking and inform him that the door to that flat is always locked but, I am interrupted.

"It should already be open so don't be an idiot and waste my time by telling me what I already know. Go."

Annoyance is my initial reaction, but fear clouds my every move so, I do as he says just as he knew I would. As I approach the already open door I hear something echoing inside.

Looking down at the phone in my trembling fingers, I realize the sound must coming from the person speaking to me.

Good-natured, yet highly amused, laughter.

I know those chuckles.

No way.

"Sherlock!"

The chuckles grow louder as I step into the room.

There he is pointing at me, laughing away, teasing me between breaths; "Oh! Your face!"

It's all I can do to refrain from strangling him so I'm surprised when I start laughing with him instead.

We get a few shushes from the neighbors, but we couldn't care less.

I'm just glad that it's still us.

He and I together against the rest of the world.


End file.
